Fire Song

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  It was more like a shadow of doom.

  Bones of the saints, not even her sister could tug at his heartstrings the way Seren did. Whereas Rosalynde was as fierce as a lion, Seren’s demeanor was gentler. He could see she was disarmed by her own anger—no doubt for more reasons than for its physical manifestation. She was a kind soul, not unlike Lady Ayleth, but unlike Lady Ayleth, he sensed in her a spirit and devotion that rivaled her sister’s.

  She hid her passions well; he would give her that—which only made him wonder… would she be equally passionate between the sheets?

  To his utter disgust, his cock hardened over that thought, and he let fly a string of oaths. In her presence, he was naught but a beardless youth, with so little mastery over his manhood that a good, stiff wind could rouse him hard as stone. And it didn’t help matters very much that after spying her at her bath, he now had a vision of her to burn over—skin so pale and perfect it appeared translucent, hair so rich and coppery it illumined her skin like the soft glow of a warm fire, eyes as silver and sparkling as the water she lay in.

  Admittedly, he hadn’t seen very much of her, but he’d seen quite enough—those pale, perfect moons rising above the glittering water, the darker tips of her areolas tempting him just beneath the surface, like a siren singing her song beneath the waves.

  For certes, Seren was a Siren, and his physical response to her was instantaneous and incontrovertible. He’d fled her presence before he could unman himself.

  God have mercy, even now, he was wholly undone by the memory, and despite that they remained in danger, he wished to God she were his wife so he could coax her down from that mount and find some secluded spot to rut together like mindless beasts.

  Perhaps he could rouse in her a different sort of passion…

  He might not be a rich man, nor even entirely couth, but he was born with a talent for pleasing women. For all that he’d pined for the untouchable Lady Ayleth, he’d never actually burned for her in his bed. He hadn’t had much need to burn. No matter how wide a berth he gave temptation, there were many a morn he’d awakened to a sweet mouth pulling his cock, or a warm, wet flower opening to greet him.

  And yet… with Seren—he looked at her now, tugging at her reins with a vengeance—it was different.

  It wasn’t a rutting he yearned for… he wanted to show her what mysteries her body concealed. He wanted to know the taste of her mouth, and drink of her sweet flower until he was drunk with desire… until his cock throbbed so hard that his eyes rolled back in his head.

  He could well imagine her nipples pebbling beneath his palm, and he longed to slip his tongue between her ripe lips, and elicit moans from her that would silence the world.

  Even now, as he watched her hips sway in time with the horse’s canter, he could imagine her nude and riding him with abandon—her lithe body undulating and her glorious mane unbound and tickling her soft, beautiful breasts.

  God help him. From the moment he awoke, it was all he could think about, even as her witchy wind roused, and he wished to God in heaven above that he didn’t feel so concerned about leaving her alone, because they would both be better served if he could find himself five minutes alone so he could strangle his cock.

  How the hell was he going to keep her safe if he couldn’t stop thinking about the beast in his breeches?

  Growling with dissatisfaction, Wilhelm surreptitiously adjusted himself so that the horse’s gait wouldn’t offer more pain.

  In retrospect, he should have told her everything. From the very beginning, he should have sat her down and explained all he knew. And still, in his defense, he’d had more than a few confusing feelings of his own to muddle through—for one, she represented everything Wilhelm could never have, and yet she was everything he could ever want.

  And then there was this: He hadn’t appreciated the shrewish tone of her voice, nor her lack of enthusiasm for his aid. He’d traveled a long, long way to help her, and he was risking life and limb, even now. If they should happen to encounter another Shadow Beast, there was little he could do to save them, and he would die with certain regrets.

  And, so much as he loathed the events that transpired before his arrival, it also wasn’t his fault her sister was dead, nor had he wished to embroil himself in her family’s troubles. They had enough troubles at Warkworth, and he’d been dragged into this kicking and screaming, because why in damnation should he agree to aid the daughter of the very woman who murdered his kinsmen?

  Aye, despite knowing it wasn’t Seren’s fault, it took Wilhelm time to reconcile that fact—not to mention that she’d saddled him with another poor soul to see to, and despite all Wilhelm’s objections, he’d come to care for Jack—well enough to part with yet another gold mark for the boy’s care, and the horse as well.

  The sisters at Neasham were pleased enough to take his coin and his horse, and so much as he’d believed they would remember his generosity and refuse any more gold, they took everything he offered, and more. And, then, after taking his hard-earned coin, they’d gone and filled Seren’s ears with tittle-tattle.

  They ought to add that to their tombstones: Servants of God, celebrated seamstresses and gossipmongers. Every last one. And particularly Mother Helewys, who’d filled his own ears with whispers about Giles and Rosalynde—whispers he ought never have heard.

  Evidently, the abbess didn’t condone bathing. She’d bent his ears for over an hour over that sin. And then, Wilhelm made the mistake of revealing that Rosalynde and Seren were sisters, and once revealed, Mother Helewys had rebuked him, telling him to never darken her doors again with Morwen’s offspring. Not that she didn’t believe Seren a perfectly lovely young woman, she’d said. She simply didn’t wish to court trouble, and trouble was all the Pendragons ever wrought.

  For his own part, he couldn’t disagree. He had his own demons to excise over that, but now that he’d gotten to know both Seren and Rosalynde, he presumed her other sisters should be as sweet and lovely as they were. They but had the grave misfortune of sharing Morwen’s blood—and consequently, it was a good thing Mother Helewys didn’t ask him to negate the rumors of sorcery, because Wilhelm was a poor liar. He wouldn’t have been able to gainsay them, and, if that be the case, they would have put Jack out on his ear. As it was, he’d promised to retrieve the boy the instant he could, because they didn’t wish to involve themselves in politikal intrigue.

  Hoping against hope that Seren’s mood would improve, Wilhelm amused himself with his own thoughts, never for one instant taking his eyes off the skies. Now that the nuns were privy to Seren’s identity, it was but a matter of time before word spread to Stephen. He only hoped that, if Giles hadn’t already found a way to disclose his recent nuptials to the king, he would be gone from London before the truth was revealed.

  23

  Avarice, envy, pride,

  Three fatal sparks,

  have set the hearts of all

  On fire.

  —Dante Alighieri

  * * *

  When thy father went a-hunting,

  A spear on his shoulder, a club in his hand,

  He called the nimble hounds,

  ‘Giff, Gaff; catch, catch, fetch, fetch!’

  Of course, as you must suspect, I have every intention of laying hands upon my grand-babes. I will bequeath them a gift—a lovely spell that will, in time, break their mother’s heart, as she broke mine.

  Or perhaps I should bind them—but nay, Elspeth would be relieved by this. She has never been at one with the Goddess.

  So perhaps I should poison them in their cribs? That way, when she returns, she will find her sweet babes blue as the sea under which I was imprisoned—I search my cloak to be sure I have my herbs.

  But, nay, killing them too swiftly would be boring. Elspeth would mourn them, never realizing her own mother had deprived her.

  Nay, I decide. Better to curse them in their fortunes so she will weep blood tears for all their suffering. Even as I meant to bless Morfra
n, I will plague them.

  Diverting myself with all the amusing possibilities, I seek my reliquary, allowing my senses to guide me. At long, long last, I am led to a women’s solar, and here I am startled to find a small cauldron in the hearth.

  “Elspeth,” I exclaim, delighted. But of course, you would embrace your dewinity now that you’ve had a small taste.

  I inhale the scent of her spellcasting. Power is, after all, an aphrodisiac. It weaves itself into your veins and then thrums into your heart, like a sweet but savage song.

  I laugh to myself, endlessly amused.

  Would that my daughter could know what I know…would that she could see the kingdom she has forsworn. Someday, before she closes her eyes in mortal slumber, I should show her all that she has forsaken.

  The reliquary is near. I follow its scent—stronger and stronger nearer the floorboards, so I sink to my knees and crawl like a hound, sniffing along the old wood. Muscles taut with anticipation, I inhale deeply, exhilarated, because I sense that wherever my reliquary lies, there, too, I will find my grimoire.

  Knocking on the floor, I discover a hollow where the scent reeks strongest. Growling, I sink my nails into the grooves and pluck up the boards revealing a small compartment beneath, and here I discover the reliquary.

  But not the grimoire.

  My stomach plummets. My face contorts. My Book isn’t here. There lies only a makeshift grimoire my daughters created in their ignorance. Pah!

  It is all I can do not to lift it up and rip it to shreds, worthless as it must be. Anger, deep and dark roils from the depths of me.

  How dare you defy me, daughter!

  How dare you keep me from my Book of Books.

  Calm yourself, I demand.

  Calm yourself.

  Could it be that Rosalynde took the grimoire with her? Nay, I cannot believe she would. Why would she carry the tome so far north, only to keep it?

  Unless Elspeth did not, in truth, embrace the Craft? And in that case, perhaps she sent her sister away with the grimoire in hand? But nay…

  My gaze travels across the room… to the hearth, where the cauldron sits, and I scowl as I pluck up the reliquary, grateful for its return. I pick up the book, and steal it to the hearth.

  Inside the cauldron, I find traces of herbs. Rose petals for love… white sage for purification… amaranth for protection… asafetida to drive away demons—I laugh—byrony to amplify the strength of her brew. And there, too, I smell bits of copper, agate, malachite and amber, each to summon a guardian angel.

  But that will not work, Elspeth.

  Where magik dwells, angels do not—least ways, not the sort you might think. I am the angel you would call. The Sylphkind are all eternal beings, bowing only to the Mother. All other gods are gods unto themselves. Angels, devils… we are all one, if only distinguished by the shade of our souls. Mine, as we have already determined… is black.

  Rage is the color of my wings.

  A glance down at the wood kindles a fire as I flip through the pages of my daughters’ grimoire, finding the most detestably ordinary spells and concoctions.

  Boring.

  Drivel.

  Waste.

  I hurl the book into the flames, watching it burn only a moment before abandoning the solar to seek my grandchildren. They aren’t difficult to find… Soft coos lead me to a room one flight up. The nursery is attached to the master’s chamber, with whitewashed stone walls and pale-blue billowing drapes surrounding a lovely, ornate cradle.

  Here, I discover the children… one asleep beneath sprigs of betony bound with rowan vines… the other peers up at me with those luminous eyes—eyes the color of Emry’s.

  Boys, I realize, and gasp in wonder. Twins. But not merely twins…

  They are both painfully beautiful, but the fairest has a countenance the image of Taliesin’s. His eyes are the changeable shade of cats-eye stones—a druid prince. Skin like pearls; nose, aquiline, like a Roman’s; lips rosy as plums; brows tipped with hair so fair it could have been fine-spun gold silk. A druid prince.

  The knowledge is both spine-chilling and glorious.

  Born again… a prophet, a bard, a Merlin. He, who was promised… a shining torch to ward away darkness. Six hundred years Taliesin has been gone, his bright soul loosed about the world, like a butterfly without a perch.

  The boy blinks, his beautiful lips curling into a smile, his fine-spun lashes brushing his soft, rose-petal cheeks, and he gives me a coo…

  I cannot stop myself. I yearn to hold him. Beauty beguiles me. I long for the scent of his warm baby skin beneath my nostrils and I lift him up from the blanket’s folds, careful not to wake the rufous-haired child. A druid! I marvel. A goddess-blessed druid, after so long. Emrys was the last, and before him… not since Taliesin. But this babe has something more than Emrys possessed… he has the soul of a Sylph shining from his eyes… pure and true. He will beguile when he speaks. He will command gods. He will…

  “M’lady,” intrudes a young maid, and I am enraged. Holding the child near to my breast, I spin about, forgetting my glamour and raising a hand to strike her down.

  And, then… I stop myself, realizing she could prove useful. I will not return here, I know, for a trick of this sort can only be played once, and yet I will have need of eyes inside this demesne. Restraining myself, I soften my glance… such a pretty thing, with pale flaxen hair, a pert little nose and eyes as blue as my Elspeth’s.

  The young woman hesitates, clearly unsettled. Could it be she glimpsed my true self behind my glamour?

  Or mayhap she simply despairs to see the look of fury on her mistresses’ face.

  I smile.

  “M-my m-mother sent me to help,” she says.

  I crook a finger to summon her within. “Thank you, sweetling. Please, come in.”

  It does not matter if she suspects me now because my charm weaves its magik between us. Even against her will, she glides toward me, and I can smell her fear as I place my hand upon her arm, sliding it up, along the path of her dainty shoulder, and finally placing a finger beneath her sweet chin. I dig my nail into her virgin’s flesh. “What is your name, my dear?”

  “Ellyn.”

  “Ellyn,” I whisper softly. “I weave the chains that hold you now, and to my will you shall bow.” I lift a finger to touch her upon the brow, and say softly, “I need—” Completely at a loss, I wave a hand over the babe. “Whatever it is that babes must need. Fetch it down to the stables.”

  Fear has left her now. “Yay, mistress. Will you take both bairns?”

  “Bairns?” I say, amused by her dialect. “Nay, I think not. I need only one—this one,” I say. “What is his name?”

  “Broc,” she says, and tilts her head to inquire, “Shall I join you, mistress?”

  “Oh, no… not today,” I say. “I need you here, my pet.” I turn with the child in my arms. “But, please, fret not. I will summon you before long, and in the meantime, please see my horse is prepared to ride.”

  “Yay, mistress,” she says, and hurries to do my bidding.

  “Oh, Ellyn…” She turns. “Please, do not speak of this to your mother.”

  “Yay, mistress, of course,” she says, and I smile, holding my prize closer as she leaves.

  “When thy father went a-hunting,” I croon to the child. “A spear on his shoulder, a club in his hand, He called the nimble hounds, ‘Giff, Gaff; catch, catch, fetch, fetch!’” And I bounce the child, and laugh, and say again, “Giff, Gaff; catch, catch, fetch, fetch!”

  24

  The woods were tangled with undergrowth. Brambles strangled young saplings, lifting shoots to seek more prey. Pale green and concealing claws, they snagged at the length of Wilhelm’s trews, nipped the hem of Seren’s gown. Bendy and willful, vines clawed at the legs of their mounts, and on occasion finding purchase and drawing nicks of blood.

  Wilhelm had never seen it so wild—overgrown and cruel with the will to prevail.

  With nary a wor
d of complaint, Seren endured the aggravation. He knew she must be relieved to be nearing the end of their journey and a heartfelt reunion with her sister.

  The coursers, on the other hand, continued to complain, snorting and huffing in protest over the assault on their flesh, prancing with legs too high and stumbling over uneven ground. It was as though the path before them would impede their travels, driving them back to the road.

  “Tis overgrown,” Wilhelm grumbled, moving ahead and slashing at a thickening vines with his sword. “It must have rained aplenty since I left.” But that in itself would be nothing new. Even during the driest of months they had plenty of rain in the north. Never in all his days had he ever encountered a forest so greedy and wild. It gave him a shiver at the back of his nape—not unlike that feeling he’d had on the morning he’d discovered Warkworth in ruins.

  But, of course, it could simply be due the fact that he’d been so long traveling already—months if you counted the many weeks before discovering Seren in Dover. He’d been traveling so long, in truth, that at this point he hadn’t the first inkling what was going on in London, nor even at Warkworth, and for all he knew, his brother could be locked away in a tower for treason. Wasn’t that what happened to men who forswore contracts with the king?